


Born To Be Wild

by vix_spes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Lestrade has a motorbike, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers the identity of the mysterious passenger on the back of Lestrade’s motorbike and he’s not happy about it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born To Be Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a following prompt at sherlockbbc_fic

* * *

It wasn’t exactly common knowledge that DI Lestrade had a motorbike and he was more than happy to keep it that way. Donovan and Anderson knew because they’d had to pick him up for a case and had seen the bike but Lestrade had refused to answer any questions on the subject. John knew as a result of nights down at the pub and had even, on one particularly memorable occasion, been given a lift on the back of it. Sherlock knew simply because he was Sherlock. None of them were particularly surprised by it (various other DI’s bitchy comment about mid-life crises aside) as it rather suited him but what did surprise them at first and then amuse them once they got used to it was the fact that when he did go out on the bike he went all out complete with biker leathers. Donovan had even been heard to comment that there were several cases where they’d probably have had more success if the DI had turned up on his bike and wearing his leathers to the murmured agreement of numerous female PC’s that were hanging around. Lestrade had simply blushed and smiled rather self-consciously, as though not quite believing what they’d just said, before barking at them all to get back to work. Sally had just rolled her eyes; her boss was far from being an idiot but he just couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that he was a complete fox, albeit a silver one.

The strange thing was, other than the fact that he owned a motorbike, the Yarders didn’t know anything about at all Lestrade’s personal life. That may not be unusual in itself when it came to the boss in most companies but it was rather unusual considering the line of work that they were in; hospitals and police stations tended to be rife with gossip with every Tom, Dick and Harry knowing all there was to know about everybody. None of them had a clue about Lestrade out of work. They didn’t socialise with each other outside of work with the exception of the occasional post-case celebratory drink although Sally knew that he was friends with Dr Watson and they often went to the pub together. They didn’t know if he was single, married, divorced, hell they didn’t even know if was straight. What was absolutely terrifying was the fact that they knew more about the Freak’s love life than the boss’. Although that really wasn’t surprising when you considered that the Freak kept kissing Dr. Watson at crime scenes (he’d even kissed John over a corpse without realising he’d crossed a line until John had informed him that was ‘a bit not good’) or dragging him into deserted alleys but probably the most disturbing thing was that he kept smiling. For a start it really freaked her (and the rest of the team) out but it was also a case of completely too much information

~*~

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade took inordinate pleasure in the fact that his team, in fact anybody, at Scotland Yard knew nothing about him other than the fact that he owned a motorbike and only a select handful knew that little detail. It had taken a lot of hard work to keep his personal life private especially when you considered the fact that he frequently worked with Sherlock Holmes who claimed he could tell a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot from his thumb. Then again, his lover – the lover that no-one knew even existed – was Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft Holmes. He never would have guessed that first time he walked into his office to discover Mycroft Holmes sitting there that they would be in a relationship five years later. Mycroft’s first appearance had coincided with a drug-addled Sherlock wandering onto a crime scene and announcing that all the police present were blithering idiots and looking in the wrong place before he proceeded to solve the case but the rant that he had mentally prepared flew straight out of his head, driven out by the white-hot flash of desire that had hit him as he took in the man who sat in front of his desk.

That initial meeting had been so that Mycroft could request that Greg keep an eye on Sherlock, something that Greg had agreed to with little hesitation; Sherlock might be eccentric and a drug addict but he was brilliant and with help he could be good. He had watched, with more than a little pride (although nowhere near as much pride as Mycroft) as Sherlock got clean and helped the police even if he did piss them off while doing so. Sherlock was still brilliant but with the appearance of John Watson and their transition from flatmates and colleagues to friends and then to lovers, the good in Sherlock had finally made an appearance as he’d always thought it would. Through all of this (a fairly impressive five years) or near enough, he’d been in a relationship with Mycroft Holmes. Greg’s agreement to keep an eye on Sherlock appeared to be a tacit agreement for Mycroft to materialise in his office once a week for a progress report on Sherlock.

After a month of those meetings (a month in which Greg discovered that yes it was possible to be in your late thirties and have a teenage crush (and have the embarrassingly sticky sheets in the morning)) he finally worked up the courage to ask Mycroft if they could move the meetings to somewhere that had proper coffee and not water mixed with mud. Coffee had turned into lunches and the odd dinner until eventually when they met for their weekly meeting, Sherlock was no longer their primary topic of conversation. Greg still couldn’t believe the paradox that was Mycroft Holmes. The man was pretty much the British Government and the SiS wrapped in a bespoke suit and permanently carrying an umbrella regardless of the weather (he’d even heard some of the junior PC’s murmuring that the umbrella had probably been created by a character like Q from the James Bond movies). He would never have expected Mycroft to be interested in him; he wasn’t particularly attractive – he was the wrong side of forty, had premature patches of grey and a slightly podgy belly due to nights in the pub and too many takeaways when he was on a case, he wasn’t educated and he definitely didn’t move in the same circles as the elder Holmes but things simply slotted into place perfectly. They got on wonderfully together, could talk for hours on a variety of subjects and there was definitely sexual attraction there. While he had been the one to ask Mycroft out on the first date, he hadn’t expected Mycroft to be the one to announce that he wanted something serious from this, that he wanted a relationship, a serious commitment.

Then again, he’d never expected Mycroft to take to the idea that he owned a motorbike so readily or to be so willing to share it with him; so many of his previous lovers had thought it was ridiculous. Women had liked the idea that he was a bit of a rebel until they were faced with having to get on the bike and then they were suddenly of the opinion that it was a death trap and too dangerous. His male lovers had been great with the concept and willing to overlook the dangerous aspect of it but very few had been happy to give up control in order to be a passenger. Mycroft had loved being on the bike from the word go (Greg had a feeling that he quite liked having to give up control for once) and Greg loved having Mycroft as a passenger. He’d always had a bike – well, it had been a moped when he was 16 but he’d traded up as soon as he could – and now he owned a beautiful Honda Shadow. Well, if you wanted to be exact he owned two bikes – the Shadow and then there was the Triumph – the dream bike that he’d always wanted and that Mycroft had bought him as an anniversary present but that spent most of its time in the underground car park of the flat they shared. Greg had his own flat that he kept for appearances sake only just as Mycroft still had the house made available for him as part of his job in case he needed to do any entertaining but ostensibly they both lived together in a flat with spectacular views in the heart of central London. Greg was particularly fond of the floor to ceiling windows in their bedroom, well they both were, especially when they were feeling a bit naughty and could leave the curtains open to make love as dawn was breaking or by moonlight depending on their schedules, something that actually happened far more frequently than either of them would ever admit to. Considering the crazy hours that they both put in (it was a good job that they were both workaholics) and despite the fact that they had been together for longer than most marriages these days, they still made time to spend with each other every day (even if it was snatched between conference calls around the world and the latest murder) and the sex was still incredible; a far cry from the early days of their relationship when, to be frank, it had been a complete disaster.

_***Flashback***_

_Greg had never understood the obsession that Mycroft had had with his weight until today and all of a sudden it made perfect sense. He was more than aware of the fact that Mycroft and Sherlock didn’t have the best sibling relationship in the world but he knew that on Mycroft’s side there was a deep-seated love for his brother that was often over-ridden by the typical over-protectiveness inherent in older siblings. That aside, despite Sherlock’s pointed barbs and the derision he poured on Mycroft, Greg was positive that deep down he loved his brother. He hadn’t been prepared for the vicious nature of Sherlock’s barbs regarding Mycroft’s diet but what had surprised him even more was the flash of hurt that crossed Mycroft’s face, quickly hidden so that Sherlock didn’t see that his barb had hit home and he had literally ached that there was nothing he could do to comfort his boyfriend. Not here, not now at least._

_Now he understood why they had been dating for months but Mycroft still found every possible excuse for them to not go beyond kissing and it answered the question as to why he was adamant that they not spend the night together. It was completely bloody ridiculous. Of course Mycroft didn’t look like Sherlock and that was perfectly fine with him, better than fine actually, Sherlock was an arrogant stick-insect and Greg didn’t feel anything for him other than admiration of his intellect. Mycroft on the other hand was absolutely fucking gorgeous. He was the complete opposite of the kind of man that Greg went for when he in fact went for men over women but Greg had never wanted anybody as much as he wanted Mycroft Holmes. He was fairly certain that part of it was down to the fact that Mycroft insisted on wearing those impeccably tailored three piece suits all the time. Since they’d met, he’d lost track of the number of fantasies he’d had that involved Mycroft and those bloody suits. He had every intention of rectifying that. Tonight._

_Once they’d left Baker Street (Sherlock was being particularly obnoxious and not even John could temper his mood), Greg found himself ushered into the waiting black car where he was joined by Mycroft. He wasn’t completely happy that he occasionally needed Mycroft to brush things under the carpet but where Sherlock was concerned he was at least used to it, and he was more than happy to deal with anything that meant John would stick around. He was always paranoid that any time when he and Mycroft were together in the same vicinity as Sherlock but it happened so rarely that he was fairly confident they were still undiscovered. He noticed that Mycroft’s assistant (and her ever-present Blackberry) wasn’t in the car which meant that Mycroft had finished work for the day and that his time now belonged to Greg._

_“I’ve arranged dinner for us at Orso. It should be suitably quiet at this point in the week. However, I have taken the liberty of pre-ordering our meal for us.”_

_He couldn’t help but shake his head at Mycroft – it had taken him a while but he had got used to the other man ordering food for them both once they had started dating and in fact he appreciated it in places like Orso where, when he had first started dating Mycroft, he hadn’t had a clue what half of the things on the menu were. He was getting much better now but he was still thrown on occasion when Mycroft took him to one of those swanky restaurants where everything on the menu was in a language that Greg really didn’t understand. Orso was a favourite of them both though and he couldn’t help but grin as a plan popped into his head. He checked that the partition was up between the driver and them before he slid closer on the seat._

_“You said that you’d pre-ordered?”_

_He could see the slight gleam of what appeared to be unease or panic in Mycroft’s eyes, not knowing what Greg was planning._

_“Yes, why? What are you up to Gregory Lestrade?”_

_“Nothing you need worry about. If you’ve pre-ordered can you ask them to have it ready to take-away? It would be much nicer to eat in private so that you aren’t having to look over your shoulder every five minutes.”_

_He watched as Mycroft turned over his suggestion mentally and then took care of it. Half an hour later, they were being dropped off at Mycroft’s flat with takeaway in tow although he’d never had takeaway that came in china dishes before. The flat, well it was probably three times the size of Greg’s flat in Camberwell, was on the River Thames near Westminster and in prime location for all the places that Mycroft needed to be. He’d been in briefly; long enough to marvel at the luxury of the place (the kitchen alone probably cost more than Greg’s entire flat) but not long enough to get a close look at anything. There were traces of Mycroft’s personality here and there around the place but in general it just seemed to be the kind of place, much like his own, where its owner simply didn’t spend enough time there to personalise it. What he could see, he liked. When Mycroft moved towards the dining table, he rolled his eyes and directed them towards the couch instead with a slight detour on the way to collect cutlery – firstly it was takeaway which nullified the need for crockery and secondly, Orso was sufficiently posh to deliver their takeaway in china dishware so there was no need to dirty more. It was obvious that Mycroft hadn’t eaten takeaway often enough._

_Having eaten the starter and main course slowly amidst plenty of conversation (and an almost equal amount of heated glances), Greg saw Mycroft looking longingly at the dessert but refusing to serve himself any and rolled his eyes. This was going to stop here and now. He knew that this dessert was one of Mycroft’s favourites and thought that it was absolutely ridiculous that he would deny himself that because of some vicious remarks from his younger brother earlier in the day. Completely disregarding the small portion of incredibly decadent chocolate cake that he had served himself, Greg scooped some of the dessert up on his spoon and guided it to Mycroft’s lips, liking the look of wide-eyed amazement that showed nobody had ever thought to do this to Mycroft before. He continued with his actions, only laying the spoon aside when he caught a smear of chocolate just at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. For some reason it made Mycroft look completely human rather than some kind of untouchable deity and it was completely irresistible. He leant forward and kissed the corner of Mycroft’s mouth before licking away the bit of chocolate._

_It was almost as though a switch had flicked in Mycroft somewhere. He responded eagerly to Greg’s kisses, pressing against him eagerly. Greg slid even closer to Mycroft, sliding an arm around his waist and backing him up towards the arm rest, relishing the taste of the rich chocolate combined with that of Mycroft. They traded kisses that, although passionate, were equally slow and languorous. Neither of them wanted to hurry this but equally they were desperate for each other, desperate for more. Greg wasn’t aware of who moved to alter their position on the couch but he found himself hovering over Mycroft who was lying on his back, arching up into Greg’s body as they kissed. The couch was probably the most decadent thing he’d ever seen let alone sat on ... even now he could feel Mycroft sinking into the soft leather under the pressure of Greg’s body. Things were moving quickly now, even though any minute now he was expecting Mycroft to pull back, and he didn’t want things to develop any further while they were on the sofa. That was a cliché that belonged to horny teenagers not professional men in their forties, no matter how badly they wanted each other. He moved backwards and pulled Mycroft up from the sofa and, taking his hand, pulled him in the direction of where he was assuming the bedroom was._

_Okay, he was taking it back ... Mycroft’s bed was the most decadent that he’d ever seen and he absolutely couldn’t wait to see Mycroft spread out naked across it. The bed itself was huge and made up with bedding in a variety of cream and shades of brown. Knowing the quality of everything that Mycroft had in the rest of the flat, he had no doubt that the sheets were going to be the highest quality Egyptian cotton and God knows what the duvet was made of. If he wasn’t mistaken, it looked like some of those bolsters and cushions were covered in silk. He couldn’t wait to see Mycroft come undone on that bed. They had both discarded their jackets and shoes upon entering the flat but Mycroft was still wearing his waistcoat and they were both in shirt sleeves and trousers, something that he had every intention of rectifying quickly. Stepping closer he slowly started to unbutton Mycroft’s waistcoat, pushing it off his shoulders before starting on his shirt and trousers. Every newly exposed piece of flesh was kissed and caressed as the expensive clothing was simply discarded on the floor._

_Once he had Mycroft fully naked, he pushed him down onto the sheets, hurriedly stripping himself of his shirt and trousers although he left his boxers on. He had been right; Mycroft looked absolutely delectable sprawled out across the chocolate brown sheets, the colour setting off his creamy skin to perfection. He was absolutely enthralled by the vision in front of him but Mycroft was the absolute epitome of discomfort. His hands were twitching as though to cover himself up and his whole body was thrumming with tension and not the good kind either. It was as though he was expecting Greg to jump back with disgust any second now. That definitely wasn’t going to happen though. Now that he finally had his hands on Mycroft he had absolutely no intention of stopping. The man was just as beautiful as he’d imagined that he would be, more so in fact. He crawled onto the bed and pinioned Mycroft’s wrists so that he couldn’t cover himself up._

_“You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. You look gorgeous My,” he whispered in Mycroft’s ear, his lips just grazing the shell of Mycroft’s ear._

_Mycroft literally shuddered at the sensation. Having received that response, Greg wanted to know the other sensations that he could pull from the other man. Mycroft was always so in control, Greg wanted to see him fall apart at his hands, because of him. He spent an inordinate amount of time teasing Mycroft, taking him apart slowly with lips, teeth, tongue and hands until he had the secret backbone of the British Government writhing with need on his own bed, begging, pleading, whimpering for more and making some of the most delicious noises that Greg had ever heard. Then, and only then, did he strip off his boxers and fumble over the side of the bed for the condom and lube he had stuffed in his trousers on the off-chance._

_Carefully he prepared Mycroft before fumbling slightly as he tried to put the condom on, the heat of the moment affecting him somewhat. Slowly and ever so carefully he coaxed Mycroft’s legs apart and started to inch his way in. After what seemed to be an eternity, he was fully encased in tight heat, so tight that he had to hold still for fear of coming too quickly. He didn’t move until Mycroft was pushing back towards him and then he started thrusting slowly. His lips leant down and captured Mycroft’s in a toe-curling kiss even as he continued with his movements. One hand crept up to tangle with Mycroft’s while the other slid between their bodies to wrap around Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft’s legs snaked up and wrapped around his waist, allowing him to penetrate even deeper as Mycroft moaned loudly. His normally articulate lover was now incapable of speaking in full sentences; whimpers and mewls escaped his mouth as he begged and pleaded for more, something that Greg was only to delighted to deliver. The sight of Mycroft below him, flushed and panting, was too much and he came, Mycroft following him over the edge, contracting around Greg’s cock as he spilled himself over their stomachs._

_Greg slumped over Mycroft, trying to catch his breath as he pressed tender kisses to a faintly (and rather adorably) freckled shoulder. Slipping out of Mycroft gently he pulled off the condom and tied it off, padding silently into the en-suite bathroom to clean them up with. When he returned to the bedroom with a damp cloth, Mycroft was already dozing, moving lethargically as Greg cleaned him up and simply dropped the washcloth on the floor but murmuring contentedly when Greg climbed into the bed and curled around him, pulling the covers up to surround them as they both succumbed to sleep._

_~*~_

_Mycroft’s eyes widened as he heard his phone beep and, upon checking the messages, saw that it was his assistant informing that the car would be arriving to pick him up in an hour’s time. When his eyes sought out the clock on the bedside table he nearly had a heart attack; he’d never slept in this late before in his life. He’d certainly never woken up with another body wrapped around him completely but it was definitely a feeling that he could get used to, particularly if the body in question belonged to a certain Detective Inspector. As much as he wanted to laze around in the bed (yet another first), he had meetings with the Prime Minister and appointments with various other members of Parliament that needed to be kept so he extricated himself carefully from the cocoon of Gregory’s limbs and the blankets before making for the en-suite bathroom, determinedly not looking back as that would destroy his resolve. The sound of running water masked the sounds of movement in the bedroom so he started as he was joined in the shower and a kiss was pressed into his shoulder as soapy hands ran over his stomach. He turned his head to ask Gregory what he was up to when his lips were taken in a short sweet kiss. His confusion must have shown in his face (he was blaming it on being completely satiated the night before and still being rather sleepy this morning) because Gregory replied to his unasked question._

_“I thought it would be more fun if we shared the shower ... I could say that we’d save time but we both know I’d be lying.”_

_***End Flashback***_

Greg grinned as he saw John stood at the bar and when he caught John’s eye he pointed towards the little corner table that the two men had claimed as his own. Both men were adamant that they have these nights in the pub, generally twice a week and never cancelled unless it was absolutely necessary. It was their little chunk of normality from everyday life and the inevitable stress of being in a relationship with a Holmes. That was the thing though; while Greg knew about John and Sherlock (it was unavoidable really; for all his claims that he was a sociopath, no matter how high-functioning, Sherlock seemed to be completely and utterly incapable of going for even the shortest period of time without touching John), while John knew that Greg was in a relationship, and one with a man at that, he didn’t know that it was Mycroft. There was a part of Greg that really wanted John to know about Mycroft but as much as John was now probably his closest friend and he trusted him implicitly, he wasn’t completely sure that Sherlock wouldn’t find out and they simply didn’t know how he’d react.

He smiled as John made his way over with two pints, his smile turning into a smirk as he spotted several tell-tale marks peeking out from the collar of John’s favourite black and grey stripy jumper.

“There’s no need to ask what you and Sherlock were up to this afternoon.”

John looked confused for several minutes until realisation dawned and he blushed slightly as he fingered the collar of his jumper. “Yes, well, um, Sherlock loves me in this jumper for some reason.”

Greg blanched. “Too much information.” He resisted the urge to add on that he was shagging Sherlock’s older brother and, as a result, Sherlock often felt like his own highly infuriating younger brother. His thoughts ground to a halt as he saw the mischievous look on John’s face; one that often meant trouble. “What?”

“You can’t really talk. Did your mystery lover-boy get a bit possessive last night?”

Greg just groaned and drank some of his pint in order to avoid having to reply. Mycroft must have left marks this morning. Then again, he’d probably left a fair few of his own. Mycroft had been in Russia for the last week brokering talks or something and even though they had spoken on the phone it just wasn’t the same. Ideally, they would be at home now indulging themselves with take-away and making love but Mycroft had had a meeting at the Diogenes club that he couldn’t get out of so Greg hadn’t bothered to cancel his trip to the pub with John.

He was, however, going to pick Mycroft up from the Diogenes when he had finished his meeting hence why tonight wasn’t going to be a late one or a heavy one. There was also the fact that they’d been a bit thin on the ground for cases recently so if he kept John out for too long then Sherlock would no doubt turn up, especially if John was wearing his favourite jumper. Besides, he had big plans for the night himself. Mycroft had arrived back in the early hours of the morning so all they had had time for was a quick ‘welcome home’ shag to take the edge off. It had been possessive and fantastic after a week of separation but it wasn’t what they needed. That was what tonight was for; thankfully tomorrow was the weekend and for once, barring any international disasters they actually both had the weekend off and Greg had absolutely no intention of either of them leaving their bed for anything but the bathroom or food. This was partially where the bike came in. Normally when he went out for a drink with John he walked to the pub or got the underground because you could guarantee that he’d always end up having one more pint than he should if he wanted to drive home. However, the bike was part of his master plan.

There was something about it, or something about Greg riding the bike that got Mycroft seriously hot under the collar. Some incredibly steamy sex had occurred after Greg or both of them had been riding the motorbike. The first time that he’d persuaded Mycroft to go on the motorbike with him had been a lesson in self-control; one that had tested him over and over again. Even now, he was nowhere near immune to the sight of Mycroft dressed to go on the bike. It was worse now than the first time (Mycroft now had biker leathers); the first time had been bad enough.

_***Flashback***_

_Mycroft was enough of a temptation in his bespoke Saville Row three-piece suits but dressed as he was ... he was going to be lucky if he wasn’t ravished before they walked out the door. He hadn’t known that Mycroft owned clothes like that and he was fairly certain that his disbelief showed on his face judging by the expression that Mycroft was wearing._

_“I was supplied with the clothes by my assistant. She was of the opinion that I owned nothing suitable. She was right of course.” He smiled ruefully before a blush coloured his cheeks. “I, erm, do they look ok?”_

_Greg wasn’t completely certain that he would be able to give a coherent answer given the view in front of him. The view changed as Mycroft turned to look at his reflection in the mirror; Greg’s jaw dropped and his brain turned to mush. There was no way he would be able to give a coherent answer. His brain was stuck on how Mycroft’s arse looked in jeans. The man had an arse to die for and Greg had been obsessed with it ever since he’d first seen it (to his annoyance those bloody suits tended to cover it up although that was probably a good thing because if Mycroft turned up to a crime scene for some reason and Greg couldn’t stop staring at his arse then Sherlock would definitely have something to say)._

_He moved closer and pressed himself fully against the length of Mycroft’s back, his hands resting on Mycroft’s hips.”They look more than ok. You look fucking gorgeous.”_

_He smiled as Mycroft’s ears turned a delicate shade of red. After ten months of being in a relationship together and having been sleeping together for almost four months, Mycroft was getting better at accepting compliments and displays of affection from Greg but he was still bashful about it. He hadn’t really had a choice about it; Greg was a very tactile person when he was in a relationship and sex aside, one of his favourite things about being in a relationship was actually kissing and cuddling. It had taken him a considerable amount of time to persuade Mycroft around to his way of thinking but once he had, Mycroft had succumbed with alacrity. Greg loved that he was the only person that got to see the softer side of Mycroft, the side that was reserved for him alone and the side that he would do pretty much anything to see._

_Slowly, he trailed a series of kisses up the side of Mycroft’s throat and down his jaw-line as he slowly gently turned Mycroft around in his embrace. He leant in and captured Mycroft’s lips in an unhurried kiss as he simultaneously slid his hands down to gently grasp the arse that was so tempting. He used his grasp to pull Mycroft in even closer, relishing in the slow slide of lips and tongues as his hands roamed the delectable twin mounds of flesh encased in skin-tight denim. It was only when he heard the first few muted whimpers emerge from Mycroft’s mouth and the other man started pressing closer that he stepped back and put space between them, even though his hands didn’t leave their place on Mycroft’s arse._

_“We need to go. You could tempt the patience of a saint love and I’m definitely no saint. If we don’t go now then we’re never going to leave.”_

_He led Mycroft out of the flat and down to the street where his bike was parked on the kerb. He made sure to stay in the lead because otherwise he’d be dragging Mycroft back into the flat and he really wanted Mycroft to experience a ride on a motorbike for the first time. He handed the spare helmet to Mycroft before putting on his own and slinging a leg over the bike. Once he was settled, he turned his head to see Mycroft stood there, shifting slightly uncomfortably and generally looking as though he was rather unsure of himself and what he was about to do. He couldn’t help but smile to himself; he had known that this would be out of Mycroft’s comfort zone but hopefully once he had settled into it he would relax somewhat._

_“Come on, just get on.” He smiled reassuringly, or at least he hoped it was reassuring. “Sling your leg over and get comfortable.”_

_Mycroft did as he was told but held himself away from Greg and towards the back end of the bike, holding onto Greg’s waist gingerly._

_“My, if you’re going to hold on like that then you’ll have fallen off by the time we hit Vauxhall Bridge. You need to move closer and wrap your arms tightly around my waist.”_

_He waited until Mycroft did as he was told and then turned the bike on, revving the engine as he did so with a hidden smirk. The noise made Mycroft jump and slide even closer to Greg so that his crotch was nestled up against Greg’s arse, his face pressed into Greg’s shoulder and his arms wrapped tightly around Greg’s waist. This was one of the major reasons why he loved having a bike. Other than the freedom of being out on the road and the rush of adrenaline that you got, it was the feeling of having whoever was riding behind you pressed up against you with barely an inch in between your bodies. Slowly he manoeuvred the bike away from the kerb and into the stream of traffic. He was planning on easing Mycroft into this and the general idea was to travel westwards out of the city following the river down to Richmond or Windsor where there were some beautiful pubs on the river where they could stop for lunch before travelling back._

_They were nearly at the pub Greg had in mind when they had to pull over for the emergency services to scream past and Greg’s attention was drawn to something that he hadn’t noticed previously. Mycroft was squirming slightly behind him and ...OH! He grinned to himself as ideas started to take root in his mind; this definitely wasn’t the reaction he had expected from Mycroft but he certainly wasn’t complaining. As the traffic started to move again, he revved the bike and moved off at a quicker speed than before._

_As they pulled into the car park of the pub, Greg couldn’t be more grateful for the over-hanging willows that dominated that stretch of the river. Turning off the bike and taking off his helmet he waited impatiently for Mycroft to remove his own helmet and get off the bike. As soon as he had done so, Greg didn’t waste any time in seizing Mycroft’s wrist and dragging him under the cover of the willow tree in the corner of the car park, thankful once they were out of view and that there were no children around. As soon as they were hidden from view he backed Mycroft up towards the trunk of the tree, opening the leather jacket as he did so. The last fifteen minutes on the bike had been absolute torture. The knowledge that Mycroft was turned on from riding on the bike had made Greg hyper-aware of every single movement that Mycroft made and every single sensation. By the time they had made it to the pub, he was hard and absolutely desperate for his lover. He really hoped that Mycroft wouldn’t object to them being in public but then figured that with Mycroft’s obsession with the cameras and his habit of watching everybody like some kind of voyeur that he couldn’t complain too much._

_Twenty minutes later and Mycroft was in no fit state whatsoever to complain about the public setting. The minute that Greg leant in to kiss him, Mycroft had surged up against him with a needy moan. Mycroft’s hands were scrabbling on Greg’s shoulders, shoving his leather jacket and shirt off them and then rucking up the t-shirt that he was wearing. Before Greg had realised what was going on, Mycroft had pulled the t-shirt over his head leaving him in just his jeans and boots while he was of the opinion that Mycroft was rather over-dressed. There was a little voice in the back of his head that he was a fairly highly ranked member of the Metropolitan police and, should they be caught, they would no doubt be charged with public indecency but watching Mycroft slowly come undone in front of him he couldn’t really bring himself to care. He shoved Mycroft’s leather jacket aside and pushed him back against the tree trunk without any consideration for his supposedly casual shirt (Mycroft was a Holmes – ‘casual’ no doubt meant Dolce and Gabbana or Armani or something equally (and ridiculously) expensive). He nipped gently at Mycroft’s jaw as he unbuttoned the pale blue silk shirt, unable to resist kissing the bared throat as Mycroft tilted his head slightly._

_He had managed to keep his hands off Mycroft’s arse earlier in the flat but he wasn’t going to be able to do that now. He batted away Mycroft’s protesting hands as he unbuttoned the tight denim and slid his hands down the back to grasp hold of the arse that had been so tempting earlier. He unbuckled his own jeans and shoved them down slightly, Mycroft attempting to help him but fumbling more than anything. He moved one hand from Mycroft’s arse to push his underwear down slightly and pressed even closer, both of them moaning aloud at the skin on skin contact. Elegant fingers in his hair pulled him in for a kiss that was completely lacking in finesse but neither of them cared too much. Greg ground his hips against Mycroft’s, growling low in his throat as he did so, the combination resulting in Mycroft scraping his nails down Greg’s bare back. As he repeated the action he was rewarded by Mycroft ripping his mouth away, his head thudding back against the tree._

_“Oh god ... yes, Gregory!”_

_Anything else that Mycroft might have said was muffled by Greg’s mouth, dampening the noises that they were making so that they didn’t alert anybody to their presence. Scant minutes later he felt Mycroft’s body seize with tension and then go boneless in his embrace as wet warmth spread over their bared stomachs, following his lover over the edge minutes later. When he had recovered he used his discarded t-shirt to wipe them clean before setting their clothing to rights as Mycroft remained limp against him. He pressed soft kisses across Mycroft’s face as the other man came to his senses somewhat and smiled at him._

_“I think we should go on your motorbike more often my love.”_

 

_***End Flashback***_

~*~  
 

Five years down the line and everything was going fantastically well but there was just one problem. Greg wanted more. He wanted so much more. For so long they’d been so careful about being seen together in public i.e. never being seen together at all, but lately they’d both grown sick of having to hide something that meant so much to them. Greg wanted to be able to give up his crappy little flat in Camberwell that he kept for appearances only and live full-time in the apartment in the heart of the city. He wanted to be able to put Mycroft down as his emergency contact (next of kin would be even better but he wasn’t holding his breath on that one) rather than a random colleague at the Met. He was jealous of what John and Sherlock had; the ability to well, not flaunt their relationship in public, but at least acknowledge their relationship in public and to not have to hide behind closed doors all the time. Mycroft may excel at secrecy but Greg didn’t and besides, the secrecy was wearing on the other man. It wasn’t as though he wanted to tell the whole world; he didn’t have any family to tell but he did want to tell John at least (someone who understood the potential (and actual) minefield of dating a Holmes) and he got the distinct feeling that Mycroft wanted Sherlock and Mummy to know, if only to stop Mummy from worrying that he was going to end up alone. They were in this for the long haul; he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Mycroft and he knew that Mycroft felt the same way. Even when they were out on one of the bikes, they both wore helmets with darkened visors so that nobody knew who was on the bike. It was all a bit too cloak and dagger for his liking.

 

~*~  
 

In the end, Greg didn’t have to tell John about his relationship with Mycroft, he found out all by himself. It was completely unintentional but it did save them a lot of stress. It had been one of those weeks from hell. There had been a string of murders, all the victims were teenagers or young children, and they were having absolutely no luck whatsoever in finding the person who was responsible. Sherlock had turned up at the crime scene earlier that day but hadn’t been allowed beyond the police barriers; the Chief Superintendent was taking an interest in this case and had decided to take a hands-on approach that very afternoon. Of course, he didn’t know that Sherlock even existed let alone his involvement with the Met as a consulting detective. When Greg told him that he wasn’t allowed onto the scene he had been unbearably rude to everybody and then flounced off, his coat billowing behind him, before Greg could explain. John hadn’t been there; he’d been at the surgery but then Greg wasn’t sure that even John could have done anything to control Sherlock. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that he hadn’t been home in three days; there was a real public outcry over the fact that they hadn’t solved this yet and the Chief Super was constantly on his back, desperate for progress. He was going to have to call Sherlock in because, as good as his team was, they weren’t good enough for this one but he couldn’t call Sherlock in when the Chief Super was there. The fact that he hadn’t been home didn’t help because it was now ten days since he had seen Mycroft and he had really missed his lover.  
  
He wasn’t getting very far with his work so decided that he would go for a wander, get another cup of (crap) coffee and maybe sneak a crafty cigarette before attempting to do another hour of work and finally going home regardless. He was heading back to his office when he was stopped by one of the desk sergeants and told that there was ‘a posh bloke who said he knew the DI’ waiting in his office. Greg barely spared a minute to thank the man before he was making his way to his office as quickly as he could. He took note of the fact that his team had gone home before he all but flew through the open door of his office. Stood by the window, and looking disgustingly immaculate despite the long journey he had undertaken from God knows where, was Mycroft. He was grinning like a complete and utter idiot but he didn’t really give a damn. Mycroft was back!  
  
He paused just long enough to shut his door and flip the blinds so that no-one could see into the office before he was across the space that separated them in three strides. He speared his hand through the hair at the nape of Mycroft’s neck, pulling him down the necessary couple of inches so that their mouths could meet. This was no chaste meeting of lips, this was sheer hunger. They were both desperate for contact, desperate for each other. There was no finesse, no refinement to this kiss; it was just an uncoordinated mess with teeth clashing and noses bumping. Then, it was as if they suddenly realised that it was real, that they were both there, they were together. The kiss was still passionate but all the desperation had disappeared from it as their mouths met over and over again. Without breaking the kiss, Greg manoeuvred them so that Mycroft’s back was against Greg’s desk and then Greg hoisted him up so that Mycroft was sat on the desk, biting his lip to keep from laughing at the surprised squeak (and it was definitely a squeak) that escaped Mycroft’s lips. Much like Sherlock, all of Mycroft’s height was in his legs so in this position they were perfectly matched. Mycroft spread his legs wider with a low moan as Greg stepped closer, mouths locked together. Before too long, Mycroft’s jacket was discarded on the floor, his shirt and waistcoat were gaping open and his hands were shoved down the back of Greg’s trousers. They were so engrossed in each other that they didn’t realise the door had opened until they heard a familiar voice.  
  
“I’m so sorry Greg. I didn’t realise Sherlock had pick-pocketed your wallet earlier ... oh my God.”  
  
They pulled apart, both of them looking at the shocked face of one Dr. John H. Watson.  
  
“I can’t believe this. How long have you two been together?”  
  
Mycroft pushed Greg away, fixing his clothes so that he was once again the epitome of dignity and respectability. “I think we’d better take this elsewhere. I’ll arrange for the car to be sent around. Dr. Watson, I hope you don’t have any prior engagements.”  
  
“Mycroft, I’m shagging your brother. I think that means you can call me John and no, I don’t have any prior engagements.”  
  
Mycroft didn’t respond. He simply walked out of the door, presumably heading for where the car would be waiting while Greg tidied up the files that had been knocked off his desk and taking back his wallet when John handed it to him.  
  
“Ta. Come on, we’d better follow him.”  
  
The car journey back to the apartment was spent in awkward silence with both Mycroft and Greg highly amused by the look of amazement on John’s face when they got inside the apartment. That in itself didn’t surprise them too much; their apartment and 221b were complete polar opposites. John took one look around the flat and turned to Greg with an amused smile on his face.  
  
“You don’t live in Camberwell at all do you? It’s a decoy. You both live here. My god, that is amazing. How have you kept it a secret from Sherlock?”  
  
“Not just from Sherlock. From everybody. Other than Anthea and my driver, both of whom have signed the Official Secrets Act anyway, you are the only person who knows.”  
  
John looked as though he wanted to ask more questions but to Greg’s relief he didn’t; whatever he wanted to know could be asked in the pub, away from Mycroft.  
  
“In that case, nobody will hear it from me. I’m going to have to go though; any longer and Sherlock will start to get suspicious. I’ll have a hard enough job keeping this a secret from him. Besides,” he gave a grin that was pure mischief and made Greg’s mind boggle, “I’m sure you two have plenty of catching up to do and I don’t really want to be your audience again. No, no, don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.”  
  
Mycroft went with him anyway and when he returned from letting John out of the apartment and down to the main road where he would be able to hail a taxi he discovered that Gregory had remained sitting exactly where he had been on the couch. He made his way back across the room, intending to sit next to Gregory on the couch but before he could do so, he was pulled down so that he was practically sprawled, rather inelegantly, across Gregory’s lap. Despite his protests, which were firmly ignored, he was manoeuvred until he was straddling Gregory’s lap and feeling rather amused, despite everything. This was one of Gregory’s favourite positions and Mycroft had to admit that he’d grown rather fond of it as well.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing Gregory?” He couldn’t hide the amusement in his voice.  
  
“I had thought that we might carry on from where we were so rudely interrupted earlier.”  
  
“You won’t have any complaints from me.” He rested his weight on Gregory’s lap, smiling as Gregory’s hands found their way to his hips and tightened, pulling him even closer. “Now, where were we?”  
  
He dipped his head to kiss Gregory, even as his hands started to unbutton Gregory’s shirt, sliding it down off his shoulders and Gregory returned the favour. Before too long, Mycroft’s waistcoat was flung over the lamp on a corner table and his shirt was half-on, half-off the coffee table while Gregory’s shirt was flung over the back of the couch. Mycroft’s head tipped back as Gregory’s mouth left his, trailing kisses down his throat before latching onto the base of his throat and suckling, leaving a livid passion mark. This earned Gregory a throaty moan and Mycroft writhing slowly in his lap, despite Gregory’s hands firmly clamped on his hips. All of a sudden, Gregory’s hands shifted their grip to Mycroft’s arse and he stood up, causing Mycroft to wrap his legs around the other mans hips in order to avoid falling down.  
  
“Gregory! What do you think you’re doing? We’re too old for this and I’m far too heavy.”  
  
“My, I love you but shut up. You’re not too heavy and I’m not so decrepit that I’m going to keel over from merely carrying you to the bedroom.” He had been walking as he talked and now, as he finished his sentence, Gregory tumbled them to the bed, pinning Mycroft underneath him.  
  
Mycroft couldn’t help but arch up into the pressure of Gregory’s body above him. The overwhelming hunger from earlier in Scotland Yard had simmered down to a slow burn but it was still there; no amount of time spent together had dimmed their desire for each other. Now, their earlier encounter having been interrupted, they had no intention of letting the same thing happen again.  
  
“Christ, I want you so badly.” Gregory’s voice was even huskier than normal and it shot straight to Mycroft’s groin, “I’ve missed you, missed this so much.”  
  
Mycroft didn’t respond vocally, simply pressed frantic kisses to Gregory’s mouth, even as his hand scrabbled on the bedside table for the familiar (and frequently used) lube. His hand closing around it, he coated his fingers and reached down, fingering and stretching himself in preparation for Gregory. He was too impatient to take too much time in doing so and before too long was coating his hand in more lube and smoothing it over Gregory’s cock. As he reached his head up and captured Gregory’s lips, Mycroft grasped his lovers cock and brought it to his entrance, tilting his hips up as he did so. After receiving confirmation that Mycroft was indeed ready and did want this, Gregory wasted no more time to Mycroft’s delight. Mycroft’s moans were muffled by Gregory’s mouth as the other man steadily pressed himself into Mycroft until he was completely sheathed in Mycroft’s tight heat. He paused briefly for several minutes before he started to move. The pace remained steady for a while but then overwhelming sensation took over and Gregory’s hips started slamming into Mycroft’s upturned arse. The combined sensations of Gregory pounding into his arse and the friction of his cock pressed between their stomachs being stimulated by every thrust of Gregory’s hips, particularly after nearly two weeks apart, was too much for Mycroft. He came without a single touch to his cock, wailing into Gregory’s mouth, as his lover spilled himself in Mycroft’s arse before pulling out of him and collapsing half on and half off Mycroft’s chest.  
  
Later that evening, as he lay snuggled under the covers with Gregory thoroughly satiated after two rounds of very good sex, the second more lingering than the first, Mycroft couldn’t help but remember the only other time that somebody had walked in on them. That time had merely been a close shave; they hadn’t actually been caught doing anything but it had left them paranoid for months, particularly as it had been early on in their relationship. As they had told John earlier, the number of people who knew about their relationship could be counted on the fingers of one hand.  


 

_***Flashback***  
_

  
_Mycroft’s eyes widened as he caught sight of a familiar face on the other side of the ballroom, a familiar face that wasn’t supposed to be here, Mycroft was certain of that; after all, it had been his security detail that had done the background checks on all of the attending guests. The appearance of the surprise guest meant that Mycroft was going to be distracted the whole time; he always was where Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was concerned. Really, you would think that after two years of dating the man (and essentially living with him for the last nine months) he would have built up some kind of immunity but apparently not. Then again, he’d never seen the man in a tuxedo before. He examined his lover critically, quickly deducing the sequence of events. The suit was well-made and fitted fairly well (Gregory’s broad shoulders were particularly well-defined by the cut of the material) but it wasn’t expertly tailored, something Mycroft would have to rectify and he made a mental note to remind Sherlock to ensure John had suitable formalwear for Christmas at the Holmes’ although, knowing Sherlock, he would probably prefer that John wore his mess dress. Collating his observations and noting that Gregory looked ever-so-slightly rumpled, Mycroft mentally ran through his guest list. The Chief Superintendent. Of course. Gregory was obviously standing in for an indisposed Chief Inspector hence the hastily bought formalwear. He turned his head away from the delicious sight in front of him with as much resolve as he could muster. He was here to work, not stare longingly at his lover; that could come later._   
  
_Mycroft stuck to his guns for a good two and a half hours, circling the room and making small talk with all the necessary people. He despised these kinds of events but it was absolutely necessary in his line of work as he needed to keep the right people sweet. Over the course of the evening, his eyes kept finding their way over to his lover who was also doing the rounds and talking to the right people. As he watched, he couldn’t fail to notice the appreciative looks that followed Gregory wherever he went, both male and female. He had noticed it before of course; witnesses were often notorious for flirting with the Detective Inspector but he was normally so involved in the case that he failed to notice. That wasn’t the case here. Here, Gregory had to pay attention to them all in his role representing the Metropolitan Police. The women were the worst (although the men were flirting rather subtly and unsubtly for that matter); giggling like schoolgirls, coquettishly twirling their hair and taking any and every excuse to touch his arms and his chest. Gregory was perfectly amiable in response but Mycroft noted, rather smugly, that Gregory removed their hands as quickly as possible. All of a sudden, he was struck with the inexplicable desire to mark Gregory Lestrade as belonging to him._   
  
_“Detective Inspector Lestrade, may I borrow you for a moment please?” Mycroft smiled pleasantly at the women he was currently in conversation with; the kind of bland smile that he used on politicians he despised. “I promise that I’ll return him to you in the same condition that I’m taking him.”_   
  
_Gregory was giving him a rather confused look but went along with him willingly enough. Even as Mycroft led Gregory into a room a short way away from the main reception room, he couldn’t quite believe that he was doing this, couldn’t believe that he had dragged his lover into an unoccupied cloakroom with every intention of ravishing him, staking a claim on him. It was so unlike him but he had just been struck with the need to do it and he hadn’t been able to resist. All of a sudden Gregory realised what was going on and raised his eyebrow with a rather dirty smirk._   
  
_“Mycroft Holmes, you dark horse. Did you drag me in here to have your wicked way with me?”_   
  
_“And what if I did?”_   
  
_“Then I wouldn’t have any objections at all.”_   
  
_Even though this was what he had wanted, Mycroft hesitated, not really sure how to make the first move. This was so completely against his nature that he wasn’t really sure where to start; if he were in a conference or a meeting it would be a completely different story. Thankfully, Gregory seemed to understand this and took control without a word, although not in the manner that Mycroft had been expecting. He watched with wide eyes as, in the middle of the cloakroom, the normally respectable DI Lestrade sank to his knees with a lecherous grin. He couldn’t believe his eyes when Gregory’s hands moved to undo his belt and the zip on his trousers, tugging them and then his underwear down to his knees._   
  
_“Gregory, what are you doing? We can’t do this here ... Oh God!”_   
  
_Mycroft’s left hand shot down to spear through the short hairs at the nape of Gregory’s neck while the right flew up to muffle any noises he might make inadvertently. Warm hands, calloused from a life that didn’t consist solely of paperwork, slid up his thighs before sliding around to grasp his arse and pull him forward, warm breath ghosting over his rapidly hardening cock. His hand clenched in silver-streaked hair and he bit into the palm of his own hand as he was engulfed in tight wet heat to the base of his cock. He didn’t dare look down for fear of losing what little control he still had over himself. The knowledge that it was Gregory sucking, licking and humming around his cock, never mind the sensations themselves, was almost overwhelming. Unable to resist any longer he looked down, and locked eyes with the warm hazel eyes of his lover. The combination was too much to cope with and with a muffled moan he spilled himself down his lover’s throat, his knees feeling distinctly weak as he did so._   
  
_Mycroft put up no more than a token protest as Gregory got up off his knees and manoeuvred him back against the wall, pulling his shoes off before tugging his trousers and pants fully off. He trapped Gregory’s face in both his hands and pulled him closer for a kiss, savouring the taste of himself combined with the taste that was purely Gregory Lestrade. Despite the fact that they had taken more than enough risks already, he couldn’t help but want more. He didn’t object in the slightest when Gregory pressed in close to him and, fumbling in his pocket, produced a little tube triumphantly._   
  
_“You brought ... that to a reception hosted by the Mayor of London?” Mycroft couldn’t help his scandalised tone, even as he started to get hard again with anticipation._   
  
_“I don’t see you complaining too much My. Take a risk for once.”_   
  
_“I take too many risks when I’m with you,” was Mycroft’s rueful response, even as he fumbled with the cap of the tube, trying to open it while Gregory fumbled with his belt and the fastenings to his own trousers._   
  
_“I’m worth the risk though right?” Gregory’s cheeky words were accompanied by a rather roguish grin and twinkle in his eye that was irresistible._   
  
_“Irrefutably so.”_   
  
_From then on, there were no further words, nothing comprehensible at least. There were simply muted moans, whimpers and groans as Gregory hitched Mycroft up the wall and wrapped his legs around Gregory’s waist, seating himself in Mycroft in one steady thrust. As the detective started a steady movement in and out, their mouths met in what was, quite frankly, a rather dirty kiss; mouths open and tongues duelling. The very real possibility of getting caught added a real frisson of excitement but at the same time, a necessity to not linger over the act. Gregory snaked a hand in between their bodies, wrapping his hand around Mycroft’s cock, starting to stroke it in synchronisation with his thrusts, occasionally flicking his thumb over the weeping tip. As they both got closer to climax the rhythm faltered, becoming more uneven until they both fell over the edge, muffling their moans with each other’s mouths. Gregory slowly slid out of Mycroft, pressing their foreheads together as they struggled to get themselves back under control._   
  
_“I think our coats were placed in here; we’ll be able to find them within minutes.” The voice echoed down the corridor and they heard footsteps heading closer and closer to them._   
  
_“Gregory move, quickly. It’s that infuriating little man from the Foreign Office. He’s one of the worst gossips; if he sees us then everybody will know.”_   
  
_They both stumbled slightly, struggling to set their clothing to rights but Gregory didn’t say a word, he simply swept a group of coats along the rail and pulled Mycroft back into an alcove, pulling the coats back across the rails to hide them from view. They stayed there, trying to control their breathing so that they couldn’t be heard and waited as they heard voices on the other side of the coat rail, searching for their own coats, finally breathing a sigh of relief when they were alone again._   
  
_“The driver will bring the car around in half an hour, is that amenable?” Mycroft’s cool and collected voice was at odds with his somewhat dishevelled appearance._   
  
_Gregory simply gave a low husky chuckle that sent a shiver up Mycroft’s spine as he tucked a lock of Mycroft’s hair back into place. “I think you’d better ask the driver to bring the car round now if you can get away with leaving. I’m afraid it’s all too obvious what we’ve been up to; you look like you’ve been shagged rotten.”_

 

  
_  
***End Flashback***_   


~*~  
 

_“_ Where’s yours tonight then?”  
  
Greg looked up at John as the younger man set two pints down on the table before taking his seat. “Some meeting at Downing Street or something; I’m not allowed to know any more than that. Dare I ask where yours is?”  
  
“Morgue.” John pulled a face. “I’m in the bad books at the moment after our argument about unlabelled body parts being left in the freezer.”  
  
Greg choked slightly before he was able to respond. “Thank God mine’s the normal one.”  
  
His comment was greeted with a giggle from John. “Normal? We’re both shagging Holmes’; there is no such thing as normal when it comes to those two. Although I will admit that Mycroft is slightly saner than Sherlock.”  
“That is true, let’s just leave that there. They’ve both got their eccentricities but for some unknown reason we’re still with them. No, I want some advice.”  
  
“And you chose me to come to? I’m flattered but surely there are other people who would be better options?”  
  
“Well nobody that I know has the reputation that you do.” John looked rather confused meaning Greg had to clarify things. “There are some rumours floating around about you; something to do with Three Continents?” Greg couldn’t help but burst out laughing as John blushed bright red and hid his face in his hands.  
  
“Who the bloody hell told you about that?”  
  
“So you’re not denying that there’s some truth to the rumours? Does Sherlock know?” He couldn’t resist teasing John some more; it was so unusual to have dirt on John Watson that the opportunity simply couldn’t be missed. “Ok, all of that aside, I really do need some advice.”  
  
“Go on then, ask away.”  
  
“Well, seeing as you know about us now which inevitably means that Sherlock knowing isn’t too far off we’ve decided to actually celebrate our anniversary in public but it’s been years since I actually did the whole ‘going out for an anniversary’ thing and this is Mycroft we’re talking about.”  
  
“Which anniversary is it? How many years have the two of you actually been together?”  
  
“Five. Come on; just give me a few suggestions. Didn’t you and Sherlock celebrate an anniversary a couple of weeks ago? What did you do?”  
  
John winced. “I really don’t think you want to know.”  
  
“Nah, go on, I could do with a laugh.”  
  
“Greg, you can’t be serious. Why on earth would you want to know what Sherlock and I did for our anniversary?”  
  
“Oh I don’t know; blackmail for when he’s being a shit at the next crime scene we call him to? Look, I’m not going to tell anybody else, not even Mycroft, I’m just at a complete loss as to what I can get him. Did you get Sherlock a present?”  
  
“Yeeessss,” John was reluctant to say (which could mean anything when it came to Sherlock) but agreed after a pleading glance from the DI. “Fine, but just so you know, everything was completely and utterly legal. I’ve got a friend who got hold of some organs that Sherlock wanted for some experiments of his.” He couldn’t help but laugh at the look of disgust on Greg’s face, “I did warn you that it wasn’t exactly normal.”  
  
“Yeah but organs? That’s going a bit far isn’t it?”  
  
“He’s a Holmes. Normality doesn’t exactly come into it. Besides, we’ve got a system in place and there aren’t any mix-ups in the fridge anymore. You knew about the eyeballs that Donovan found in the microwave and that was on the first night that I met him; if I didn’t run away screaming after that then it’s going to take a lot to put me off. You get used to it. He was very grateful as well, though if Mike knew how thankful he was I don’t think we’d be allowed back into the labs at Barts again.”  
  
“All I can say is thank god I’m dating Mycroft; I may have to deal with phone calls in the middle of the night and him jetting off around the world at a minute’s notice but at least I don’t have to deal with organs in the fridge. Are they human? Actually, I don’t want to know. I need help though; I mean, what the hell do you buy a man like Mycroft Holmes?”  
  
“Who says that you need to buy him anything? Can’t you get away for the weekend or something?”  
  
“This is Mycroft we’re talking about ... the British economy would probably collapse, terrorists would blow up the Houses of Parliament or World War Three would start.” Greg smiled ruefully, “there are occasional downsides to dating the British Government.”  
  
“Couldn’t Anthea help you out? Surely she could pull some strings or something? Mycroft can’t be the entire British Government can he?”  
  
John was rewarded with Lestrade’s ‘Are you a complete fucking idiot?’ look, one that had been sharply honed after years of working with Anderson and some of the other idiots at the Yard. “It’s Mycroft. Surely that says everything. And Anthea might be completely amazing but I’m not sure that even she could swing that.”  
“He’s kidnapped you before hasn’t he? He’s kidnapped just about everybody else who interacts with Sherlock on a regular basis so he has to have abducted you at some point. Can’t you just return the favour? Besides, surely Anthea wants a night off; she’s not a saint.”  
  
“Are you suggesting that I abduct Mycroft?”  
  
Both of them froze as John’s phone vibrated on the table and he looked at it, grimacing as he read the received message.  
  
“Sherlock?” Greg sounded hopeful, desperately wishing that it wasn’t Mycroft.  
  
“Yes. They’ve thrown him out of the morgue and he’s left his riding crop in there again so he’s not in a good mood. I’d better get back to the flat. I don’t want him to find my gun and start shooting holes in the wall again.”  
“I’m just going to pretend that I didn’t hear that. There are some things that I’m better off not knowing. By the way, did Sherlock get you anything for your anniversary?”  
  
He watched in fascination and some trepidation as John blushed bright red and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He didn’t get me anything in the material sense...”  
  
“Oh god, I don’t want to know. There are some things that you don’t want to know about your best friend and your lover’s little brother.”  
  
“On that note, I’m going to leave ... let me know if you manage to come up with anything for Mycroft. With as few details as possible thank you very much; there are some things that I really don’t need to know and Mycroft’s sex life is one of them.”  
  
“Fine; you don’t mention your sex life and I won’t mention mine. Deal?”  
  
“Deal.”

 

  
(~*~)

  
“I hope you realise how irregular this is Gregory.”  
  
“Yes, it’s usually you who does the abducting isn’t it? How does it feel to be on the other side for once?”  
  
“Rather strange as a matter of fact. It’s certainly unusual to be abducted in my own car. Where are Anthea and my driver?”  
  
“Your driver has been given the weekend off to spend it with his family and I believe Anthea is spending her weekend at a country spa or something. Seeing as it’s just going to be the two of us, how do you fancy coming up front and keeping me company.”  
  
Having done as requested, Mycroft hummed happily as he leant across the gear-stick to kiss his lover gently.  “What prompted this? What am I supposed to do without Anthea and my driver for the weekend?”  
  
“You do remember that it’s our anniversary this weekend yes? Five years. How about doing what the rest of us plebs do and relaxing, celebrating it together? Things have been arranged as necessary so we can actually be together. You’re not expected to be working at all.”  
  
Mycroft was actually rather pleased with this. Of course he hadn’t forgotten that it was their anniversary, he just wasn’t expecting anything like this. Admittedly this was the first serious relationship that he’d been in for a long time but he was actually surprised that Gregory had gone to such efforts to ensure that they could spend their anniversary together. Then again, that was nothing usual when it came to Gregory Lestrade; he had ensured that over the last five years they had at least spent some portion of their anniversary together. From the way that he was talking and acting, he must have something rather more elaborate planned. That, more than anything that he could have planned, meant the world to Mycroft.  
  
“If I’m not going to be working then what exactly am I supposed to be doing?”  
  
“How about spending the time with me? With a bit of help from Anthea, we’re booked into a little boutique hotel in Brighton for the weekend. I packed a bag for you.”  
  
“But what about your anniversary gift?”  
  
“Anthea put a bag in the boot and I’m under strict instructions not to look in it. Could that be it?”  
  
Mycroft smiled and relaxed into his seat, slightly unnerved by the thought of not doing any work for the weekend but anticipating it all the same. “Maybe this will be more successful than the last time that we ended up in Brighton. We may actually end up in a bed.”  
  
He actually squirmed in his seat at the predatory grin on Gregory’s face.  
  
“Oh I don’t know, I thoroughly enjoyed the last time we went to Brighton. I had thought you did as well.”  
  
“I did enjoy it! I always enjoy the time that I spend with you but... I still can’t believe that we did that!”  
  
Greg took his hand off the gearstick, squeezing Mycroft’s knee and sneaking a peek sideways, biting his lip so that he didn’t laugh at the sight of a bright red Mycroft. He wasn’t lying at all; he had thoroughly enjoyed their last trip to Brighton, however brief it had been. It was just a pity that this time they didn’t have the bike with them. _  
_

 

  
_***Flashback***  
_   


_  
Greg opened his bottom drawer and took a long look at the box that lay within, just waiting to be wrapped up. He still wasn’t completely sure as to how his gift was going to be received so he had purchased a second present that he knew would be more appreciated by Mycroft. Both gifts had been hidden in his desk at the Yard but he was still trying to work up the courage to give it to Mycroft. The present that he had been hiding with very little intention of ever actually giving to Mycroft? Well, it was a set of leathers for him to wear on the bike. In the three years that they had been together, Greg had slowly but surely worked on Mycroft’s wardrobe (with a little help from Anthea) so that he now had clothes in his wardrobe other than tailored three piece suits, clothes that he could wear when they went out on the bike. Mainly it was simple things like jeans and shirts that were a damn sight more casual than he wore to work. However, Greg was desperate to see him in leathers. He just had this gut feeling that Mycroft would look abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous in biker leathers. He had his own set of leathers of course but he could never be bothered to wear them all at the same time; he generally just wore jeans with his leather jacket and boots. He knew that, should he give the leather trousers to Mycroft, it would be an exercise in self-restraint for himself, one that he would undoubtedly fail but he just had a craving to see the older man in them. At least he had two days to decide what he was going to do._

_  
Two days later he was changing out of his suit in their bedroom, putting something more casual on, something more suitable for what he had planned which essentially equated to his leather trousers and a casual collared shirt. Both of them had managed to work half-days in order to spend some “quality time” together especially as Greg had been away on a conference and Mycroft had been closeted with various members of the Government for several days trying to do damage limitation for the latest crisis. He had finally decided to bite the bullet and had left the box containing the leather trousers on the dining table along with a note explaining about them and, judging from the soft exclamation he heard several minutes ago, Mycroft had discovered them. His heart was literally in his mouth as he waited for some kind of further response as to how his gift had been received.  
He caught a flash of movement in the mirror and turned to see Mycroft hovering anxiously just out of sight behind the door. It was just so completely out of character for the other man that he couldn’t help but regret his gift slightly. As much as he wanted to see Mycroft in leathers, he didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. When Mycroft finally moved into full view, he took it all back. Mycroft wearing leathers was everything that he had expected and more. He walked towards Mycroft, swallowing desperately as his mouth felt dryer than a desert, sliding his hands over the curve of Mycroft’s arse encased in the smooth leather._

_“You look incredible love.”_

_“Gregory, I look ridiculous and you know it but flattery will get you everywhere. What possessed you to buy me leather trousers?”_

_“Jeans are all very well and good for just zipping about London but your real anniversary present, or most of it, means an hour’s drive out of London on the bike so it’s a safety thing.” Greg knew that he was clutching at straws even as he spoke and Mycroft that judging by the smile on his face._

_“So you were thinking solely of my safety were you? The fact that you wanted to see me in leather trousers never came into it at all?”_

_“Of course not.”_

_“You’re not convincing anyone love, let alone me. But, I think it’s time for your gift now. It’s downstairs.”_

_“Ok, in that case you need to collect your jacket and then we can go downstairs. Your phone stays here. Anthea has promised that she won’t be contacting you tonight but we’re not taking any chances. You don’t need your wallet either. No arguments.”_

_As he followed Mycroft out of the apartment, Greg slid his wallet and keys into the inner pocket of his leather jacket before admiring Mycroft’s form as he walked down the corridor towards the lift. They were dressed pretty much the same in leather jackets, trousers and biker boots with collared but casual shirts. It was there that their outfits differed; while they both wore ‘casual’ shirts, Greg knew that while his had come from one of the concession stands in your average department store, admittedly one of the higher end ones, Mycroft’s had come from one of those stores where the name of the shop was always in small print and the window displays never had any prices whatsoever. He just couldn’t understand why Mycroft had this obsession with dieting and his weight though; from what he could see (and he had a very good view indeed) Greg didn’t think there was anything wrong with Mycroft Holmes whatsoever. He was rather confused when he was led down into the underground car park and a corner that was as far away as possible from his motorbike. There, stood a gleaming black and silver Triumph – the dream bike that he had wanted since he was sixteen and had just bought his first moped. He didn’t know what to say and for a long time just stood there incapable of saying anything, simply staring at the work of art in front of him._

_“Do you like it?”_

_“Like it? LIKE IT? Mycroft, this is absolutely ridiculous. I love it! It’s fantastic. You shouldn’t have spent so much money on me though.”_

_“Well, I do have ulterior motives in gifting it to you I suppose. I wasn’t really thinking about the money aspect of it, I was simply thinking that you’ve always wanted one and it was within my abilities to provide you with one.”_

_“And I love you for it.” Greg leaned in and kissed Mycroft chastely. “Well, this changes my plans slightly; we’ll take this bike instead of the other one. Have you got the keys? We’ve got reservations to make.”_

_“Take this bike where Gregory?” Mycroft sounded wary as he handed the keys over but then Greg wasn’t really too surprised by that; Mycroft hated surprises although he tolerated them where Greg was concerned._

_“The place we have to go for your real anniversary present. It’s a surprise but you’re going to like it I promise. Come on, grab your helmet and let’s get going.”_

 

_(~*~)_

_  
They had had a wonderful meal at Terre à Terre, a vegetarian restaurant that Greg never would have thought of going to but a couple of the other DI’s had been raving about it and he thought it was unusual enough to justify the hour long drive down to Brighton for their anniversary. Now though, buoyed by the fact that they had spent a lovely evening, in public, and in each other’s company as well as a bottle of champagne (this was Mycroft we were talking about), Greg had brought Mycroft down to the beach and was trying to persuade him into being a bit more adventurous._

_“Come on Mycroft, live a little. It’s the middle of the night; nobody is going to see you.”_

_“But I’m going to know that I’ve done it. Besides, what if somebody does see us? This could be disastrous if people found out about it.”_

_“Have you honestly never gone skinny dipping before? I thought it was something that most people did at some point or another. My, we’re in Brighton, it’s eleven thirty at night and this is a nudist beach. Nobody’s going to give a damn.”_

_He could tell that Mycroft was wavering and only needed a little bit more persuasion, persuasion that he was only too happy to provide. There was no way on earth that he was going to make this look even vaguely attractive let alone sexy but he wasn’t going to let that distract him. This was his only chance of persuading Mycroft into doing this with him. He hadn’t bothered putting his jacket on when they left the restaurant, simply slinging it over his shoulder, and now he simply dumped it on the beach before starting on the buttons to his shirt. Once he had stripped down until he was just in his trousers and boots, he made a move towards Mycroft who was frozen in place, just staring at Greg._

_“The only person who is going to see you is me. Now stop procrastinating and get your clothes off,” waiting until Mycroft had started to obey him before he started working on his own trousers and boots.  
_

_  
(~*~)_

_  
Coming out of the water not too much later, Greg watched the goose-bumps that had formed on Mycroft’s skin and was filled with a desire to be the cause of those goose-bumps rather than the cold waters of the English Channel. He wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s wrist, preventing him from escaping too far up the beach and getting dressed too quickly, and pulling him into Greg’s body and kiss as a consequence. As he pushed Mycroft backwards onto the ground, covering his body with his own, he couldn’t help but be relieved that this part of the beach was at least sand rather than shingle but it definitely wasn’t going to be the most comfortable trip back to London. Less than ten minutes later, looking down at Mycroft lying beneath him with his thighs splayed obscenely and a look of pure abandonment on his face he couldn’t help but think that it was going to be worth it. A bit of sand in uncomfortable places was completely worth having a thoroughly debauched-looking Mycroft Holmes beneath him._

  
_  
***End Flashback***_   


~*~

  
Greg woke up to the sight, the oh-so-beautiful sight, of the Thames literally sparkling and the city bathed in sunlight. He loved London, even when it was grey and raining, but he especially loved London like this. It had been your typical British summer so far; blazing hot days where it seemed half of London skived work to bake in the sun or absolutely fucking freezing cold combined with torrential rain. Today it would appear the forecasters were right and the day was going to be beautifully sunny with not a cloud in the sky and the mercury soaring to temperatures you would expect in the Mediterranean (cricket fans would be delighted that the Oval wouldn’t be a wash-out like Wimbledon earlier in the month). The only view better than the one out of the window, was the one that Greg got if he inclined his head minutely. Mycroft, his face relaxed in sleep, lay against Greg’s chest. He loved these few moments, all too often too few and far between, when he could just watch Mycroft sleep.

Despite not wanting to wake the other man, he couldn’t resist trailing his fingers up and down Mycroft’s spine, pausing briefly as the other man pressed in closer with a contented murmur. Even now, he was fascinated with Mycroft’s skin. He couldn’t get enough of the baby-soft, satiny texture, the way that it felt underneath his hands, his lips, his tongue. He simply loved the way that Mycroft’s skin felt pressed against his own. He watched his lover, drinking his fill, and wondering if he could persuade him to go for a trip on the bike so he gave a start when Mycroft spoke all of a sudden.

“Would you please stop staring at me Gregory. It’s rather disconcerting.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help it if I find you gorgeous.” Greg’s compliment was rewarded with a slight pink tint to Mycroft’s ears and neck; even five years down the line Mycroft struggled with the compliments that Greg paid him, something Greg found endlessly endearing.

Ever so slowly he started planting kisses over the bits of Mycroft’s body that he could reach, revelling as Mycroft squirmed to give him more access, a slow lazy smile spreading across his face as he practically purred like an overgrown cat at Greg’s tender ministrations. They both loved this; trading slow kisses, the sensual slide of naked skin against equally naked skin that slowly morphed into sleepy morning sex, a delight that they so rarely had the time to indulge in.

Stood in the shower a considerable amount of time later, Greg was even more delighted when it took the bare minimum of work to persuade Mycroft out of the apartment and away from his desk for the day. He had it all planned out in his head like a military operation. As soon as they were dressed (Mycroft in jeans and not leathers because in jeans the chance of Greg jumping on him and fucking him through the floor was slightly less (and that was definitely a good thing when they were going to Greenwich Park)), Greg led them down into the garage where the Triumph waited; a beautiful day called for a beautiful bike.

The roads out to Greenwich were fairly deserted – they practically soared through Peckham – everybody was out enjoying the sunshine and nobody wanted to be cooped up in cars or on public transport. Greg couldn’t resist going just that little bit faster than necessary (and faster than the speed limit allowed) just so that Mycroft would have to press that little bit closer and hold him just a little bit tighter. Far too soon for his liking they arrived in Greenwich, Greg parking the bike up just outside the west gate of the Old Royal Naval College. He’d come here a lot when he had first moved to London from the West Country. He loved the buzz of the big city but he missed the open expanses of green so living south of the river in Camberwell meant that he was in fairly close proximity to Greenwich Park and when he had free time he would often find himself down there. Knowing Mycroft, he’d never even been there; he was fairly sure that Mycroft never really had cause to venture south of the Thames. He directed them towards the Old Brewery, tentatively sliding an arm around Mycroft’s waist, not knowing how it was going to be taken. Even though they had ventured out in public as a couple several times now, it was still something that they were trying to get used to. To his immense relief, Mycroft allowed it and, further still, allowed Greg to direct them towards the sun-drenched courtyard of the Old Brewery strewn with tables and chairs. Mycroft had come a long way over the years and he was always a lot more relaxed when it was just the two of them. Even so, Greg couldn’t help but be a little surprised at the sight of Mycroft sat amongst all the tourists and children eating fish and chips albeit after considerable grumbling along with the best red wine that they could order.

Once they’d finished eating, he even persuaded Mycroft out onto the grassy area in front of Trinity College to read the Sunday papers. Admittedly, that had taken more persuasion than the fish and chips but Greg knew exactly how to bring Mycroft around to his way of thinking and a few whispered suggestions of what he would do to Mycroft that evening if he agreed were more than enough persuasion. When they had chosen their spot, Mycroft swiftly commandeered the World News sections as well as the main part of the paper, Greg hijacked the sports pages and settled down on his stomach. The paper couldn’t hold his attention though and his eyes kept sliding across to Mycroft, completely absorbed in the papers (and filled with a need to keep his finger on the pulse at all times), his cheeks taking on a pink flush in the sunlight. If they spent much more time in the sun then his freckles, the freckles that Greg adored but that Mycroft hated with a vengeance, would make an appearance. He cast a glance around the crowded green, seeing the children running around all over the place, teenagers lounging in packs and couples lying in the grass, exchanging kisses every so often. He snuck another glance at Mycroft and decided to take a risk. He slowly moved closer to Mycroft, hoping that he would catch him unawares. He succeeded. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth and then, when Mycroft turned his head towards him, claimed his mouth fully. This was what he had wanted for such a long time, the opportunity to sit out in the sun, in public, with Mycroft and trade long, lazy kisses not giving a damn who was watching them.

“MYCROFT?!”

The two of them pulled apart with a groan; they would recognise that voice anywhere. Sure enough, when they stood up and turned around there was an irate Sherlock striding towards them, his heels dogged by an apologetic John. And what the hell were John and Sherlock doing in Greenwich? Surely it was too far from Baker Street? Before they could say anything, Sherlock was talking again.

“Mycroft? Really? Are you that desperate for companionship that you’re willing to stoop so low as to seek relations with my brother?” He saw the looks between the two older men, and realisation dawned. “Oh, it’s not just sex. You fancy yourselves to be in love with each other. How pedes ...”

His words were interrupted by John’s warning of “Sherlock” and looked vaguely repentant before he started talking again.

“Mycroft is your mystery lover, the passenger on your bike. I am surprised at that. I would have thought that he was too fat; he’d probably alter the balance too much. It’s not a recent thing either ...” his eyes narrowed, “this has been going on since you first met. Five years!”

“Sherlock, if you don’t shut up now and apologise to Greg and your brother SINCERELY, then you can say goodbye to that deep-freeze you want for your experiments.”

Sherlock murmured something but none of them could actually distinguish any words and he was rolling his eyes as he spoke. This earned him a glare and John’s no-nonsense tone. “Sherlock, I mean it. Apologise properly or I’ll move back into my bedroom for the week.”

“But Jooooohn.” Sherlock was actually whining like a six year old and even pouting (and wasn’t that absolutely hilarious) but one more glare from John had him delivering a sincere apology to Mycroft.

Greg couldn’t help but snort with laughter at the threats John gave his lover and the fact that they actually worked (despite his mild-mannered exterior and completely unremarkable appearance, John held a considerable amount of power over Sherlock) before he slid a proprietary arm around Mycroft’s waist and pulled him into a relatively chaste kiss, unable to resist winding Sherlock up. When they separated, Sherlock and John were already leaving or rather John was dragging a resistant Sherlock off by the wrist. He could hear Sherlock’s outraged cry of “You knew!” and knew that John was going to have to do a lot of explaining in order to get back into Sherlock’s good books. Then again, he wasn’t completely certain that he wanted to think about what John was going to have to do to get back into Sherlock’s good books. Turning away from the couple retreating into the distance, he looked over at Mycroft, expecting to find annoyance at Sherlock’s earlier diatribe or indeed a smug smile at his enforced apology but instead found him tapping away at his phone, not looking the slightest perturbed.

“My, are you ok? There isn’t a problem is there?” He hoped not, he rather wanted to enjoy the rest of the day.

“No, of course not, I was merely giving Anthea the necessary introductions.”

“Instructions for what Mycroft?” Greg’s tone was wary, not at all convinced what the response would be.

“The instructions informing her to arrange for the sale of your flat and then for her to arrange for the rest of your belongings to be transferred to our apartment. Now that Sherlock is aware of things then there’s no reason to keep up this charade. Oh, and to submit the paperwork of course.”

“What paperwork would that be?” Greg kept his voice calm even as he had a minor mental breakdown.

“For the civil partnership of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Full prompt this was written for: Lestrade rides his motorcycle mostly on his days off and such, but when he does, he goes all out: Leather and denim, a sexy silver fox on an equally sexy bike. His friends and some co-workers know it, it’s no big deal. Sherlock (and possibly John) sees Lestrade out and about now and then, but lately he’s had a passenger behind him on the bike. Whoever it is, they’re kitted up in leather and a helmet with a darkened visor, and it seems whoever it is wants to remain anonymous. Lestrade’s not talking.
> 
> You know who it is, of course. It’s Mycroft indulging his man. How does Sherlock find out? How does he react? Go!
> 
> Happy ending, please. Yes, I’m a happy-ending-junkie ;p


End file.
